


Just A Letter

by SharpestScalpel



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, I feel creepy writing this, Letters, M/M, Multi, Other, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestScalpel/pseuds/SharpestScalpel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The erotic love letters of one Magneto to one Professor X.</p><p>Work in progress</p><p>Maybe Charles will write back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a kink meme prompt, not a real fill for it: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/5215.html?thread=7064671#t7064671
> 
>  _So even after their ideological split, Erik and Charles are still in love, and as proof of that, Erik still periodically sends Charles love letters. Filthy, erotic love letters, that even make Charles blush and hurriedly hide and lock them away, never to read them again (though he can't bring himself to throw them out). Make me blush along with Charles, anon ;)_
> 
>  _And then one day the kids accidentally find them. And the next time the X-men face off against the Brotherhood, they're too mortified to look Magneto in the face._
> 
>  _Inspired by Kate Beaton and her encounter with James Joyce's love letters XD_

My dear Charles,

Last night I walked past an open window and smelled sex, the musk of bodies fucking into each other fast and tight, sharing sweat and spit and blood. I wanted it to be you, caught underneath a new lover, a faceless man with a hard cock you were using as a reminder of how it felt to give underneath me, as a reminder of the way your flesh parted for me, welcomed me, made you my home.

Last night I walked past an open window and stopped, peered inside because I wanted it to be you, spread open and slick, waiting there for me to find you like a finely papered gift. I wanted it to be you so that I could unwrap you, unravel you with my tongue buried in your ass, penetrating you until your mind returned the favor, penetrated me in return until we felt the same nerve impulses, until I came from nothing more than the power of your orgasm.

If it had been you, Charles, I think I would have wanted you to come on my face, thick spurts of your semen across my cheek. I do prefer it when I smell like you, scent-marked as your lover so clearly that even your... beastlier companions would make no mistake of it. It is as true as it ever was: I am yours.

-E


	2. Chapter 2

My dear Charles,

This costume is a garish thing, tawdry and cheap, clashing colors that remind me of gaudy things, women's jewelry and men's guns: all so much fanfare. This symbol, though, that's the thing of it, the sign that is read and interpreted as it is intended to be. I do recognize the lack of objective framework, Charles, I truly do; I also recognize the costume of your cardigans and tweed, the old-mannish clothes lulling those around you into comfort and ease.

This is why I prefer you naked, Charles. Well, it is _one_ reason at least. Nudity imprints itself on time; it is neither subjective nor objective, merely exists simultaneously both within and without the context of our culture.

I am not ignorant of these philosophies, as you may have thought me to be. I am... aware enough to realize the fact of my own construction; I am the blade that Shaw sharpened. What you must consider, my love, is that the edge was there, waiting to be honed, before he ever appeared with whetstone in hand.

So, then: best to be without clothing and in your presence, your flaccid cock resting against your thigh, balls in repose. The bend of your side, the plump of your ass, the subtle and refined plane of your hip - these are the signs I would read.

 _Touch me_ \- every inch of you, the textual you of your body, is printed with it. And I shall, of course, be a student of your literature, you language, your orgasm. And I shall feast on you.

-E


	3. Chapter 3

Charles... Charles, Charles, Charles.

I fucked a woman earlier tonight. She's still asleep in my bed, in fact, which is why I am not asleep there myself. The crush of her skin is too oppressive now that our sweat has dried. My hands smell of her.

She has dark hair, the way Moira had dark hair, long enough to get caught in her lipstick, obscure her face in the wind. You wanted that one - did you ever have her, Charles? Did you ever turn her over your knee and paddle her until the flesh of her ass glowed red and warm? Or did you only whisper about it to me while I fucked you?

This one would not have stood for that sort of treatment, I'm afraid; far too modern in her thinking for anything so barbaric - as though the erotic capacity of pain and punishment were outmoded. Fortunate for me that she is also modern enough to pursue casual encounters. In any event, she was wet enough for my fingers, more so for my mouth. I sucked on her, laved her clit until she cried. Her skin is fair, rather like yours. It flushed, rather like yours, from her ears to her nipples, all blooming poppies in snow. I ate her for hours; it was delicious.

If I thought your vaunted morality could accommodate it, I would send this one to you. Azazel knows better than to ask questions of me in this regard. I think she would like you, perhaps enough to let you taste between her thighs, lick me out of her until your face was shiny wet with the evidence of our coupling. If only you would ask nicely.

The thought of it... perhaps I will wake her, invite her to join me in the shower. I think I could bathe with her, though it would not be the same as turning my back to you, face to the water while you scrubbed at my skin, until I was clean.

My bed is not the same without you.

-E


	4. Chapter 4

Charles -

I saw you at the conference in Bern this past weekend.

You're looking rather fit, Charles. Your arms are... a temptation.

Did you sense me there? Do you still reach for my mind, without even realizing it? I did not wear the helmet - I know it is little more than a beacon of blank whiteness, more visible in its impenetrability than any muddled confusion of inner voices. More than that, I will not bar you from my thoughts unless at utmost need; I gave up that pretense long ago.

I considered reaching for you. I still know how. Emma does not appreciate it - I've caught her off-guard, at her worst, and I suspect she will never forgive me for the offense.

Your mind, Charles. I saw you at the conference in Bern and I wanted your mind as much as your body. You are the cool relief of water, the soft cushion of a bed of fall leaves compared to my own jagged edges. I never dared to ask but perhaps now there is nothing to be lost should the answer displease me: how did you find any place in me at all for you? How did you not cut yourself on every memory-sharp shard of me?

If you had read my mind, mein Geliebter... Show me, Charles. Show me how you touch yourself in the middle of the night when you think I am the only one awake in the world to know what you are doing. I would like to trace the new bulk of your arms with the point of my tongue. Are there other places I should apply said tongue?

Your suit was new, was it not?

-E


	5. Chapter 5

My dear Charles,

It might be some time before this letter reaches you; I have found no postal offices in this jungle. Did you know? You are no less in my mind when I wear this helmet than you were at the mansion - I went to sleep and woke up to you there, like you were simply oxygen. You were and remain somewhat distracting.

There are bugs in this jungle, Charles, bugs that necessitate the wearing of long pants and full sleeves. The air is as thick as the steam in your shower. How does your skin remain so...

Everything is uncomfortable.

Is it strange to you that I would send you such petty complaints? I was well accustomed to these conditions once; I was hardly aware of my environment when my target was within my sites. You softened me.

Though, it must be said, I would fuck you in this weather. You are so pale, Charles, my delicate Englishman. But you flush so nicely in the heat. The sweat beads on your skin like dew. Do you know Cap O' Rushes, Charles? I think you told me the story once. Your sweat is the salt, and I would lick all of it from you, each precious drop.

This heat - it is not entirely the weather. It is also the thought of our slick skin in contact, sliding flesh on flesh. Would you shift and move simply to feel the sweet friction of it, the easy pressure and drag? If you would not make such a gesture, I would. My pride is not a requirement when I am with you.

-E


	6. Chapter 6

My dear Charles,

I am remembering you on your knees before me, your knees bruising on the hard wooden floor of your bedroom. I think you relished the pain of it, the still joints and occasional bruises. You have always needed some punishment to assuage the guilt of your enjoyment of that position, haven't you?

In truth, though you took such great pains to disguise it from me, I would have catered to your humiliation. The idea of your discomfort while you performed such a service for me, your red red mouth hotter and wetter than any woman's cunt, made me long to grasp your hair between my fingers and fuck your refined and earnest face, Charles. I wanted to bruise your throat with my cock so that your voice rasped the next day and people wondered if you had acquired a cold of some nature. Not a sickness, I would tell them, sparing you the need to speak. Simply a sore throat.

My body aches with this memory. I will dwell on it, as you might expect me to do - as you have watched me do in the past, sitting up in your proper dress clothes on the second bed of an anonymous hotel room, too prim to be dirtied in hand or mouth with my cock. You are a voyeur, darling, in mind and deed. When I thrust with force into my own fist, will you be there in my mind, feeling the slick grip with me? Will you feel the burn of my thighs, the tightness of my testicles, the involuntary flex of my elbows when I cannot resist my orgasm?

Should you come calling at such a moment, Charles, you are welcome. You are present in such moments whether you intrude or not.

-E


	7. Chapter 7

My dear Charles,

I want to come on your face.

Inelegant, perhaps, but true nonetheless.

I would like to trace the head of my cock over your lips, paint your intolerably red mouth sticky and slick and shiny. I would like to press against your cheek , smear your face and hair until semen drips down your neck.

And then I would like to lick you clean, the flat of my tongue on the column of your throat so that I can feel your pulse in between my teeth.

Open your mouth for me, Charles. Suck your fingers for me, as though they were my cock. Do that for me now while you read this letter and think of the taste, the smell of us together. Slide your tongue between your fingers, bite at the joint, scrape at the skin; at all times remember.

Remember me.

-E


	8. Chapter 8

Charles -

Forgive my brevity, there are... pressing matters that require my attention. However, I was recently detained and, once I secured my release, the temptation to write to you was too great. I believe I may have quite traumatized my captors, Charles; you see, they restrained me.

The fools used metal - chains and shackles. Really, it was entirely medieval. And, of course, entirely useless. I ask you, are those who would oppose me truly so incapable? Their incompetence is an embarrassment. Though it was convenient for purposes of my escape.

They came for me, and when they found me wrapped in the metal they had themselves provided, occupying myself with memories of you, they paused entirely too long. Oh, cease your worry, Charles - I did not kill them. They were not even deserving of that, children playing at vigilantism. I believe I have... talked them out of their position. I am not above using reason.

But that is irrelevant. I wished to tell you - they chained my wrists and elbows, strung me between a hook in the ceiling and a ring in the floor. When I roused, I was alone, as you had left me. My cock awoke before I did; I could all but feel your hands on my skin. My ribs ached and my chest was bruised; the marks still remain, and I can almost believe they are from your fingers. It was uncouth of me, certainly, but there are physiological responses which cannot be helped, cannot be denied. Now that they have walked in on a hostage with his hands unexpectedly freed and located busily in his pants, well, one hopes they will avoid the matter entirely in the future.

I vacated the premises before I could finish attending to matters - when I have completed this letter, and when I have conferred with my compatriots, I will retire to my room. And there, with your name on my lips, I will restrain myself on my bed, as you did when we still shared sheets. There, Charles, I will bind myself until I find the release that you promised me - promised and delivered so many times - with out even touching my cock.

-E


	9. Chapter 9

Charles,

I let a man who reminded me of you fuck me last night. I can still feel it, like a cramp or a strained muscle. It was satisfying enough, one supposes, though hardly memorable in the greater scope of sexual experience: a solid yet pedestrian fuck. I cannot recall the details of his face - your own features supersede his. At least for the main part; honesty compels me to share with you that his cock was not so girthy as yours.

It was satisfying enough, one supposes, though it does not... measure up.

Think of it as loyalty, Charles. I am no monk and never have pretended to be - I am of entirely the wrong tradition for such displays of Christian piety, am I not? Still, I seek out reminders of you. You shall not be supplanted.

-E


	10. Chapter 10

My dear Charles,

Circumstances have kept me from writing - and even now this shall be entirely too brief a missive to share much of any importance. We are hard-pressed now, Charles, and some of it is your doing. It is still better than certain days, memories I do not know if even you have sen in my mind. How deep within me did you delve, Charles? How far beneath the surface did you dive, breath held like the weight of that submarine resting on your chest?

You always took that moment so personally, didn't you? 

In truth, though telling you so was not my intent when I sat down to write this, so did I. Your mind like a beacon, your strong hands dragging me back away from the destruction I pursued because there was no other option after my failure. Did you know even then how much I would give up to accomplish my goal? 

Everything.

But I would have given myself over to you on the deck of that ship, in that precise moment. You were a respite, a caught breath, and I borrowed your strength just long enough to keep my head above the water - this is, of course, literal as well as metaphorical.

Men cannot keep secrets from each other in the water - it is one place our bodies can never hide. And I desired to show you all the truth of me even as you sat wrapped in blankets, with the watchful eyes of the others upon us. Did I ever tell you this, in any way? Did I make the sense memory of it available to you as we swam together in that little swimming pool you maintained at the mansion? Their eyes - I would not even have desired for you to influence them, close them, protect us from being seen. They would have been witness to our congress and thereby blessed it with common knowledge: "Lensherr is his. He is Lensherr's."

You never needed such validation, did you? Or am I wrong in that? Would you have perhaps stayed with me if I had been less reticent in public, less afraid of what the children would think? I had given up so much care for the world and its opinions then, but the children, they mattered.

I have given up so much more than that now.

Ah, how melancholy. Forgive my self-indulgence, Charles, as you ever have. This is longer than I had planned. But I shall send it to you, in the hopes that you will think of me when you receive it. Not as your enemy. But as I still am: your lover, long though we have been apart.

-E


	11. Chapter 11

Charles,

It is your Christmas Eve. You were not devout - but there is something in this ridiculous holiday that speaks to me of you. Perhaps it is simply the facile concept of good will toward men. 

What has your good will netted you, Charles? A reputation that seems a cage even without bars? Even from this distance, I can see it - the tension at the corners of your eyes when you would rather speak, the particular twist of your knuckles when you would rather gesture.

I remember these things. I had you restrained, in my bed, beneath the weight of me and you gave in to me. Never passive or without will of your own - instead, comfortable and easy in the trust that was between us.

There is snow falling, and it is cold. And I think, in this moment of hindsight and... holiday spirit, that you should never have extended your good will toward me.

-E


	12. Chapter 12

Damn you, Charles. Damn us both.

A story for you, entirely for you because Mystique knows better than to ask after my moods, leaves me to rot in my brooding solitude. I will even begin it as though it is one of your much-loved fairy tales, a story for children with a lesson between the hidden rooms and trusted wives and talking fish.

Once upon a time, Charles, if such a time were earlier this evening, a man - more than a simple man but masquerading as a simple man - propositioned a woman who engages in such things. Things would be easier, the man thought, if he could scratch what was becoming a persistent itch, rid himself of his infernal bodily impulses.

Does the setting matter? It was a hotel room, the same as any hotel room when you are paying for just the might and no questions asked. Dingy and smelling faintly of the bleach the staff use liberally in an effort to clean their own souls.

This man took this woman there - better always to be on neutral ground for these matters. (You taught me that with your warm bedsheets, Charles, tempting me into staying when I knew I ought to leave.) He licked her cunt, fingered her until she squealed with every dripping wet thrust up inside where he was paying to be.

But his cock remained soft, tired. They were always running, thought this man, this simple man. He wished to believe it nothing but exhaustion and, he might concede if the right person pressed, the nerves of being so long away from that which he found good.

He is tired.

I am tired, Charles. And even my prick has betrayed me, now that I have sent my paid-for woman away. Now I am hard, have been since the thought came that I should write to you.

Do you want me to describe it, the ache between my thighs where I am caught in the fabric of my trousers? I did not undress when she was here; she was entirely young and lovely and - I will admit to you - it was satisfying, though my own flesh rebelled, to bring her to repeated orgasm.

The impulses of my nerves direct my fingers and my power. My zipper is no barrier and my skin is hot beneath my own touch. When I lift my hand to my mouth, I relearn the desperate salt of my own want.

It is not a difficult story, Charles. It is one to which you know the sticky ending.

We will rest now, in this brief haven we have found. And, in a few days times, I will find another willing body. But at this precise moment, you own me as surely as you ever did. It does not sit entirely easy with me, this knowledge. Would you release your hold upon me if I were to ask it? Or would you deny any claim over me, protest that I am entirely my own creature since I left your side?

I will think on you as I tend to my body, Charles. You own me still.

-E


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, Charles writes back.

I don't even know how to address you. Or whether this letter will find you in a timely fashion. 

But, my friend - if I may still call you my friend - another one of your letters has just been delivered. I have not yet read it, wished to set these thoughts down before I unfold those pages. It has been three years, Erik. And still you leave me behind in a maelstrom.

First and foremost - Erik, you are always welcome here should you desire to change your approach. As is Raven. Mystique. Old habits are still hard to break, alas. Such as my habit of placing my trust in you. 

Don't think I am not aware of the way you released those scientists. 

You are so guided by your rage, Erik. But you are a good man at heart. I know because I have seen it.

There, you've not used up my good will yet.

Class is about to begin; I've lingered overlong in writing even this short letter. I'm left with no time to find the right way to say that my heart races when I see your handwriting - and while my body is different than it was, I would still not refuse you.

-Charles


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another from Charles.

My friend - There, I have settled on that for the moment. It is, at least on my behalf, the truth. The least of the truth.

I've not heard from you. Did I violate some principle of which I was not aware? Did writing to you satisfy whatever has moved you to put pen to paper? Were you simply trying for a reaction, Erik?

It as been four months, 17 days. Is this a punishment for not returning your letters earlier?

Tell me what I should think of all this.

Yours,

Charles

(That was settled before you left.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik's response is not what Charles expected.

Charles --

There's no time, there's never any time. But what time I have must be used to explain -- we found her in a lab, Charles, in a glass box, covered in wires and electrodes. She cries when we hold her. 

I could not leave her behind, Charles. And is this not what your much vaunted values would have me do? Rescuing babies and returning them to safety, passing them on to you? We are not of the right sort for me to give you babes in the ordinary fashion (though I am compelled to say that we could try, repeatedly).

There was no name on her box. I have taken to calling her Anya.

-L


	16. Chapter 16

Curse you for a temptation, Charles. 

Of course I read the article, your pithy sound bites for mutant rights, your unrelenting optimism that we can coexist. There was nothing you did not speak to me over our chess games, no argument I had not already railed against. 

But your picture. 

Did the photographer pick her from a group of photogenic mutant children? Did he consider the impact of all your wealth and power juxtaposed with the vulnerability of a babe in arms? 

Or did you have her near you already? Did you know that I would see her, need to school my face against the relief in my chest that she is healthy and cared for? 

More than relief, I will admit. I always wish to defile you when you are at your most wholesome. Does anyone know better than I the depth of your delicious depravity where it lurks beneath your charming, easy smile and clean fingernails? It is vulgar to speak so bluntly but the truth of it was proved commonly enough between us, my greedy lover. 

Damn you, Charles. And all that I have ever desired of you. 

-E


	17. Chapter 17

Anya is thriving, my friend. 

There, you know that at least, even if you burn the rest of this unread. I have been following you in the news as well. Reports of unrest, stories of rebellion where there has long been festering unease. So much violence. 

I am not afraid of you, Erik. 

Though I fear for you, have done so every second of these past silent six months. Will you destroy yourself rather than let someone love you? 

Anya does love you - her mind is soft and happy when I imagine you for her. 

I won't beg. 

Yours,

Charles


	18. Chapter 18

Were you in my mind last night, Charles? Did you prod at the edges of my thoughts like a cat who insists on being petted? 

Was it just a passing flicker of my wishful imagination that I thought I felt your familiar murmur?

Perhaps it was. You have been a frequent intruder in my thoughts regardless. 

But if it was your sure and subtle touch, I have an excuse for the response of my flesh, the pace of my blood as it rushed through my limbs and pooled in my crotch, rendered me painfully hard. 

If you visited my half-drowsing consciousness, I have an excuse for the languid way in which I stroked my chest, my sides marked with scars, my belly that began to soften under your care and feeding. 

I practice a utilitarian masturbation; the needs of the body must be met but there is so rarely time to dwell upon pleasure. You insisted on that pleasure, dwelled on it until we were drunk with sensation. You touched me until I nearly wept, denied me the ceremony of your hand on my cock until your own time was satisfied. 

Was it you coming calling, Charles? Did you see how I gripped my erection lightly, touched with only the easiest of pressure until my hand was slick with my own pre-ejaculate?

If it was not you, perhaps I owe Frost an apology. 

-E


	19. Chapter 19

My friend -- Erik, my friend. 

I will not beg of you but I will make a request, for the sake of the years between us. Send Anya some acknowledgment. You must know of the regard she has for you, her rescuer, her mysterious savior. I would say she regards you as a father if she yet had any conceptualization of what a father might be.

You ask if I have sought out your unguarded mind, ventured into it during your intimate moments -- how is you have never understood the truth of things for me? I respected your wishes, for me to remain absent from your mind. I did so until you invited me to come inside you, until you opened your mind to me in the room we shared. And from that moment forward, I did not leave, trapped in exquisite feeling there at every moment. Until you put on that damnable helmet. 

My friend, my mind is always with yours. All that changes is whether I can hear myself think -- or whether you have drowned me so far under that I cannot tell our thoughts apart.

Write soon, Erik.

Yours,

Charles


End file.
